She bared her soul to me
Bared her soul in beautiful hues my dull eyesight couldn’t dissect
The canvas painted in shades I could barely detect
And I still see the rainbow in the browns of eyes
And brown eyes seem so common
Hers were anything but
They shined so bright the world dimmed when they shut.
So I blinked when she blinked
Winked when she winked
So I’d never live in a world without that light
And if ever she went blind I’d gift her my sight
Because the world needs those eyes
With each amber iris
Those irises that can capture the hue of the rain
Down to each drop’s stain
That can take the cool of the storm
And match the sun’s sense of warm
She paints pictures that remind you of the first day you were born
Everything is real
So real it’s exciting and terrifying
Life giving and death defying
So vivid if I described it I wouldn’t know where to start
My first love I fell in love with the artist as beautiful as her art.

Ms. Monroe -
I had painted her on my wall
In that room
In that time
That was once mine
Like herself
And is now gone..
She is still there though
Beneath the layers,
Maybe.

Painted over
Blind to the common eye
But if you look closely
Her traces linger
He outlines distinct
And her curls ever-flowing
Even the mole
Still there
Under layers
Of paint
And various other things
Becoming a layer,
Maybe
But she's still there

Etched once upon a time,
Now fogged by their layers
But I still see her
More fortunately,
Still feel her
There
On that wall
In the minds
Where she shall always be..

she strode past us with a strangely humble presence,
short dark curls matching a flawlessly and painfully casual outfit.
It must've taken her at least three trips from the shelf to the counter -
there was a stack of maybe 11 canvases in front of her, all varying in shape and size.

she was an effortless kind of beautiful,
the kind that boasts without saying anything.
you could tell so much about her just by looking at her appearance,
but at the same time all her movements seemed to be keeping secrets.
Her conversation with the woman at the cashier reflected her lightweight personality,
and I liked the way she used the word "surfaces" for the blank canvases -
that word was a large mouthful of potential.

I really hope she'll paint them in all the different shades of European blues and greens and bronzes that I had caught a glimpse of in her eyes.

Her smile ignited in her toes and reached all the way up to the creases by her eyes as she laughed at him. "You can paint anything in the world and you choose to paint a flower?" She chuckled.

He thought about her words and decided to spill out the truth "I chose to paint this flower because it is beautiful and the only thing more beautiful than a flower is you. I cannot capture your laugh, the way you look at me, your whispered "I love you's", the blue hue of your eyes and your cheshire smile on a piece of paper. A thousand shades of paint couldn't even begin to do you justice, my love."

Change me, tame me,
make me who I'm not.

Stretch me, shrink me,
this is what we're taught.

Paint me, hide me,
until there's nothing left.

Maim me, shame me,
there you have it-
the world's easiest identity theft.

The world is just an old fat man.
Rolling in holy black sheets.
Old replayed talk radio-
And a nice warm cup of tea.
I drank my soda too fast.
I looked at her too long.
I said I'd see the world.
But without Her, I'm sure I'd see it wrong.
We used our hands as cups and plates.
We never wanted to sleep.
We stayed up until morning.
Busy bodied, watching T.V.
She painted her nails in the same color-
As the sky after a storm, where-
Orange and red, with swirls-
Twisted like her hair.
The world saw me love her.
It even led me by the hand.
And just because you miss me-
Doesn't mean I miss you back.

Of feathers and rain,
Both washed and running,
His strokes are free but damp,
His words are clear and flowing.

Thousand strong, they speak of life so light and pale,
Where the wind blows soft in an off-white sail;
In the faded colors they are but a dream,
Still the ocean breathes salty, calm on the breeze.

On white they bleed,
Under summer sun like rain they dry,
Although in the wet they run,
Still some day they all must die.

And they bled such beauty,
Their death so tragic, is now such glory,
Of feathers and rain they seem,
In faded colors they are but a dream.